


Greyscape

by orangefriday



Category: Smosh
Genre: AU, Angst, Apocalypse, Gore, OOC, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangefriday/pseuds/orangefriday
Summary: The world is a wasteland. Nothing is what is used to be. Humans? They are scarce and few. What is left is a mutation of human. And Ian Hecox is the cure.
Relationships: Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying something here. I've been writing in this universe (of this story that I created) since the beginning of high school and have written multiple story lines and characters for it. I thought: why not throw Ian and Anthony in the mix? I'm excited! This "world" is sort of like my baby and I daydream about it all the time.

“Anthony.”

Light.

“Anthony. C’mon.”

Touch

“Get up. On your feet now.”

Eyes. Familiar ones. Colour like the sky. The ocean. Right into him.

“Anthony! Fuck. _Wake up._ ”

He can understand now. No more muffled sounds that are only screams and roars. No more incoherency that stumbles into his brain and builds up until there is a wall between clarity and chaos. The wall is broken.

Words. Instructions. Voice. One voice.

Then a hard slap against his cheek that _stings_ and _hurts_. But it turns the words into actions and he’s actually up on his feet and _waking up_.

“Good. Great. Let’s go.”

He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out except a gargled growl so he instead grabs hold onto the thing – an arm – that keeps him up around his waist. He squeezes it, feels the skin and the flesh – the warmth – and finally he can _see._

  


He jumps from darkness to light. At first it happens quick, to a point where it angers him so much that he starts to see red and feel fire. It’s like his eyelids are blinking rapidly but his eyes are already closed so how can he stop this flickering of white and black?

When it’s dark, he can’t understand anything. He can’t understand the sounds that come through his senses muffled and distant. Thoughts, words, letters, sounds – all dangle precariously close in the darkness, just out of his fingertips. He wants none of it in the darkness. He doesn’t like it in the darkness.

But in the light, it’s like a breath of air. He can see. He can hear. He can feel. Not well, but at least he can. He’s out of the dark waters that had been drowning him before without him even knowing it. But he can’t stay afloat for too long. The darkness calls for him.

  


“Anthony?”

  


He’s choking. There’s something warm running down his throat and he’s choking on it. It tastes good though. _So good_. But it’s too much.

“Stop,” he says and he hears himself and almost opens his eyes in surprise but his body doesn’t quite do what it’s told. Instead, he jerks to the side and groans, the sound coming out foreign and unfamiliar. It sounds almost like a animal’s growl. His ears tingle with the onslaught of noise.

Noise? He can hear noise.

“Wake up, Anthony.” Noise. No – voice.

Noise is: the wind whistling overhead, the creaking of steel, the sound of scratching gravel underneath his body and the whine of – the whine of –

The Darkness disappears and he sees the light. It’s blue. Deep, azure, glittering blue.

“Anthony, it’s me,” those eyes say. Something brushes his lips, warm and inviting. He leans his face into the touch. Feels nice. “It’s Ian, Anthony. Wake up.”

Hand. Fingers. It is fingers that smooth over his brow and cup his cheek. It’s a hand that covers his mouth and it’s something that he doesn’t know but is sweet that drips into his throat.

Then the gentle fingers become a hard slap against his cheek.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Anthony sits upright and starts to cough. His whole body aches from the sudden jerking motion. He blinks rapidly and winces at the sight before him. Everything is so bright that tears start to well up in his stinging eyes.

A sigh to his left becomes a laugh. “ _Anthony_.” And before he knows it, Anthony’s got an armful of Ian and his back that slams hard into the pavement from the force. He’s not wearing anything up top and his skin brazes the jagged pebbles underneath him. He lets out a yelp but its sound is buried by Ian’s head of hair in his face. But he wraps his arms around Ian anyway, pulling him close as Ian’s arms tighten around his neck.

“Wha –” Anthony clears his raw throat and tastes a little of something metallic on his lips. “What’s g-going on?”

Ian untangles himself from between them. Anthony frowns at how cold he is without Ian on top of him. Ian’s smiling though, looking relieved so Anthony can’t help but return the gesture. His friend looks haggard and worse for wear. What happened? Where are they? Why is there red painted like specks on Ian’s face? And when did Ian cut his hair so short? Now he can’t make fun of his bowl hair cut anymore.

“C’mon, no time,” Ian says and takes Anthony’s hand. He looks down and sees.

His hand is stick thin, grey, and almost _monstrous_ in Ian’s – normal – hand. Anthony takes in a gasp, unbelieving and his whole body freezes. What was wrong with him?

“W-w-why…” Anthony starts to say and his eyes dart from his hand to Ian’s face. Ian’s smile is gone and his expression is stony now. It matches the dark of the broken building behind him.

“Got to go, Anthony,” Ian urges and lifts Anthony up with a hand around his waist. He teeters sideways and bumps his hip against Ian’s. But it’s not hip that Anthony feels. Instead it’s something cold and hard and he looks down to see a gun.

Further from the gun, on the ground, is blood.

And further around the blood, is something that looks like his own hand but it’s not his: grey and broken and _unnatural_ on the floor. Severed, but dangling on a thin piece of skin from a contorted looking shoulder. Bones stick out of ripped grayish yellow flesh like knives.

Anthony finally knows what the whining is.

It’s from the _Almost Dead_ dying around them.

  


“I kill them because I don’t want them to live,” Ian says, kicking the firewood with the toe of his boot. Anthony wonders how Ian doesn’t feel the searing heat of the fire and how he can relax, back curved as he sinks into the wet rough mossy surface of the fallen tree. They’re two miles on the outskirts of Zone Black, or L.A., as it once was called and just on the edge of the forest. It hardly looks anything like it used to. Anthony vaguely recalls the skyscrapers; blue and shining white against an azure clear sky. Now, they’re black – just like the name suggests - and falling apart. The steel creeks and groans against the winds.

Anthony can hardly recall the trip out of the city. He remembers slightly being hidden in empty, broken cars and dark damp corners while Ian went off and came back with bloodied weapons and heaving breaths. He goes into Darkness several times and wakes up every time with Ian by his side and a liquid – Ian’s blood – just sliding down his throat. It must have been days.

Ian hasn’t smiled since then.

“But you’re immune,” Anthony says, head swiveling this way and that at every movement. But it’s only the birds flying about, weaving in and out of the trees and speeding by in stretched blurs. He’s not used to wildlife, not used to the light or the tall trees growing out of the forest floor. He fingers the hem of the shirt Ian put on him with his gloved hands. His bare skin burns in the sun and he has to cover up despite the blazing heat of coming summer. “And you’re the cure.”

Ian shrugs. “No one needs to know.”

“I know.”

Ian sighs and looks at Anthony, blue eyes hard. He hardly recognizes his best friend. He doesn’t understand him anymore. Doesn’t know how to interpret the look Ian’s giving him. Is he exasperated? Tired? Annoyed? Regretful? Challenging? Anthony’s been _Away_ for so long. He’s been _Out of his Mind_ for years. He can still taste the foulness of his delirium on his tongue and he eagerly waits for the squirrel Ian is cooking to hurry and be done.

After a moment, Ian’s eyes divert away and he whispers to Anthony, sounding defeated, “You’re the only one I’ll ever save.”

Anthony looks at Ian, trying to catch his eyes again but they’re hard at work scanning through the trees. He’s good. Ian’s gotten better at pretending, at avoiding and at being strong. He wonders what Ian’s been through. Ian’s been alone just as long as Anthony has been _Away_.

“What about,” Anthony starts, shifting so that he’s directly in Ian’s eye sight and continues when they lock gazes, “What about your sister? Your mom? Our friends? What about Melanie? You’d save her, right?”

Ian doesn’t move, face remaining unchanged. Anthony takes a hard look at Ian’s face. It’s clean, shaven, ever-so-slightly tanned with skin that seems tight and rough. He’s all sharp angles and prominent cheekbones and jaw. His hair is a shade lighter than what Anthony can remember. A few years ago, Ian was twenty-three and still baby faced and pale, with smiles all over. A few years ago, they were at the beginning of their life’s work, fresh with ideas and dreams and ready to face the world. But the world changed and nothing in those twenty-three years they shared would have prepared them for it.

Now the world is desolate. Bloodthirsty and dead.

He stares back; gaze still hard. It’s always hard nowadays. Tough. Unrelenting. The moment he _Awoke_ , those eyes had been bearing into Anthony, reaching deep down inside of him and grasping tightly. So unlike the man Anthony remembers. If Ian were whom he was years ago – funny, laughing, bashful, compassionate – Anthony would never have gotten _Out of his Mind_. It was Ian’s icy eyes that shook Anthony _Awake,_ and it was Ian’s blood that courses through Anthony’s body that keeps his mind _Awake._

“Dead,” Ian says, and doesn’t hesitate. Says the words like he would say his own name; _Ian Hecox._ Nothing is distinctly like Ian anymore. Nothing about him is like his best friend who he’s grown up with. The only reason Anthony knows he’s Ian at all is the fact that the other had told him he was when Anthony came around. He seemed familiar then. Otherwise, Ian is a stranger.

“But—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts and kicks the flames a little too roughly so that bright sparks encase the burning squirrel.

He waits for Ian to say more but he only stares at Anthony as if his eyes could talk what his voice does not want to say. This time, Anthony diverts his own eyes and fidgets with his hands. He’s still grey. It’s only been a few days since he _Woke_ and he’s still ashen faced and pale, sharp bones and pointed teeth. He’s lost almost all body fat. Ian says at least he’s not hairless anymore and doesn’t look like a botoxed mole rat. But he’s jealous of Ian’s pink skin, the flush that is bordering on becoming sunburnt on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and the muscles that poke out of his midnight t-shirt. Anthony used to be the stronger one, the toned one. He used to lift heavy camera and sound equipment while Ian wore wrist braces if he worked himself too hard. Anthony should be the one with the hard eyes, the rippling back muscles and the one with fingernails that had dug into dirt and bloody flesh. But no. Instead he had died and had fallen _Asleep_ just like the countless other others that have.

Yet, he doesn’t know if he would have had it in him to do what Ian had done: save him.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony offers after the silence becomes too much. He doesn’t like it. It reminds him of when he had been _Asleep._ And he’s sorry for a lot of things.

“We’ll live,” Ian says and throws him his half of the charred creature. It tastes better than human flesh.

  


They’ve been walking all day, only stopping to hunt or to take a piss. Although, it feels like Anthony is the only one with the fluids to piss and Ian just stands behind him while his dick hangs out.

“We’re just going around, man,” Anthony states and it’s obvious because the black city is the same distance as they walk for hours. It’s what he looks at while they move. He watches it because it’s the thing that’s most familiar to him in this wilderness. Anthony finds the threshold of the covered forest more frightening than the decaying urban wasteland to his side. He’s spent so long in the city of breaking muted silver frames after all.

“Yeah,” is all Ian says. Unlike Anthony, he looks ahead, head tall and shoulders high. He takes large, wide steps over broken tree branches and pointy asphalt rocks without even a glance down. It’s like Ian knows exactly where they’re going and has done this dozens of time. His cut short brown hair reveals the tightness of his neck and the veins that travel from his neck, down his firm arms and all the way to his tense fingertips. Those arms sway by his side and Anthony is forced to stay a few feet behind from Ian in case the bowie knife he carries in his iron grip stabs Anthony in the thigh. Ian is strapped and loaded with guns hanging on each of his hips, under his belt and at the small of his back, and another _sword_ (where the hell did he find a _sword?_ ) strapped across his body. There’s ammo in his pockets and in the pack on his back. And Anthony knows there’s more weaponry in his own backpack that was put on his back to carry by Ian but he won’t know how to use them and he knows they’re not for him to use anyway.

And the only time Ian and Anthony had ever held guns was at a shooting range and they had _sucked_.

Anthony huffs, gasping for breath as they walk up a particular steep slope. “And _why_ are we doing that?”

“Because,” he says and that’s it. Says nothing more even as Anthony gives him quiet and time to answer. He’s annoyed, frustrated and tired. His skin is still grey and it pisses him off because he has to see Ian’s fleshy, real, _human_ skin and has to push away the animalistic thoughts that had been on his mind for the most part of two and half years that he had been _Asleep_. The seagull they ate three hours ago feels like it was eaten days ago.

“You’re not very good at explaining _shit_ , Ian,” he snarls and breathes. A growl steeps in the back of his throat and his front teeth dig into his bottom lip. He stops when his vision goes red, darkness creeping in again, and his back curls up in that familiar crouch that it almost feels _comfortable._ The Darkness calls for him like a lullaby, suffocates him with its black but then, a hand around his chin forces him to _drink_. Anthony almost gags but swallows the metallic liquid and instantly, he can see. Light rushes in. Dark vanishes. He’s staring straight into Ian’s cold, hard eyes. Ian’s hand is bloodied and covering Anthony’s mouth.

“Let’s hope this isn’t something you need all the time.” He lets Anthony go, his cut palm painting red on his hip and guides Anthony to sit against a tree. The crimson blood on Anthony’s lips is sweet. “I can’t be your blood bank forever.”

Anthony doesn’t say anything until the desire to _feed_ , to _taste_ , and the jealousy turned raging hunger subsides from him.

  


“Is there anything other than fucking birds and squirrels?”

They’re _still_ walking. And Ian has only taken one toilet break since the day began. Maybe he took another while Anthony had passed out during the flesh-hunger fiasco two hours ago. The sun is setting and the green of the forest is turning black. He can hardly see the outline of Zone Black and it makes him nervous. It’s just a black silhouette of rotting metal frames and dark brown clouds settling into the night.

“Fish.”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “Is that all you say?” He catches up to Ian, chest heaving and out of breath, but he feels better than he has for a while now. “One word; ‘fish’, ‘because’, ‘don’t’, ‘dead’?”

Ian doesn’t even look back at him. “Yeah.” Ian keeps walking.

“What are we doing, Ian?” Anthony asks and almost stumbles over a particularly knotty tree root. “Fuck,” he almost yells but keeps his voice in check. Something about Ian keeps him in control. Three years ago, he might have snapped at his friend, and argued with Ian until they were both red-faced and exasperated with anger. Then they would have laughed and called each other ‘assholes’ and ‘bitches’. “ _Why_ are we walking in a _circle?”_

“Because,” Ian says and Anthony’s toes curl with fury.

“Because _what?_ ” Anthony seethes, the familiar curl of his back, the snarl of his lips, the scrunching of his brow reminds him of the Darkness. He’s slipping but he doesn’t notice it until Ian stops and turns to face him.

“Do you need more?” Ian asks and holds out his hand, bandaged with a piece of a spare shirt Ian had. The blood is soaked through and dried to a rust colour. It has a scent; strong and vaporizing – _good_ _smell._

Anthony blinks back that thought. It reminds him of the Darkness – the unfeeling darkness. But in the Darkness, he hadn’t been able to feel, to know, to _smell_.

 _You’re not in the Dark right now._ _You’re with Ian. And he’s got blood. For you._

_Take it. Have it. Must have it._

Ian’s unraveling the bandage, slow because the crusted blood sticks to his skin. It hurts and Anthony can tell by the way Ian winces and breathes in sharply. Fresh blood oozes out and the scent is _glorious_.

_There. For you._

_Yours._

The red against Ian’s skin looks _fascinating_. It drips thick and swirls in miniscule circles with particles of white as it’s released in pulses. Anthony can _hear_ Ian’s heart.

“Here.” Ian takes a step forward, lifts his hand palm up like an offering in front of Anthony’s mouth. A trail of deep burgundy runs like a ribbon around Ian’s wrist.

 _Yours_.

Anthony lifts his own hand, fingers grasping lightly around Ian’s arm and bringing the open wound closer. Ian’s skin is warm, and his flesh softer and fuller than his. Is he shaking or is Ian? His vision is completely focused on the blood, the agonizingly _beautiful_ blood, but he lets his sight flicker to their touching hand and arm and sees.

Peach under grey.

Human and inhuman.

Anthony recoils instantly. The thoughts, the smells, the sight of blood looks revolting now and he shakes his head furiously and almost flings Ian’s arm away from him. He’s scared. So scared as he looks into Ian’s blue eyes and sees _something_ unlike the strange Ian and more of the Ian he last remembers; the one that had been screaming for him, crying for him, and running _away_ from him.

“No,” Anthony says. “I don’t need it.”

This time, Anthony leads the circular walk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian can't decide what's worse: when he closes his eyes or when he opens them.

The dream starts again the moment Ian lets himself sleep. He shouldn’t, he knows. He should watch Anthony; make sure nothing happens to the both of them, to his friend – to himself.

But how can he resist when for the first time in two years, seven months, twelve days and twenty hours, he finally has someone else to talk to? Someone to sleep beside? Warmth to feel behind his back and a breath to listen to that lulls him to a slumber?

So he succumbs to the tiring folds of sleep that claw his eyelids close and numbs the tips of his fingers. The strained muscles holding his shoulder blades become lax and an audible exhale whispers _good night_ to his retiring waking mind. Ian thinks his body and brain will finally shut down but it awakens; his thoughts scatter into a hundred pieces, held together by a steel string he can never cut which never lets him forget, no matter how hard he tries to. The scenes flutter by in rapid flashes and he tries to shield himself from it but it’s not possible when he’s asleep and his mind is constantly haunted by the horrors of his worst imaginations and the truths of his stark reality.

The dream starts with Melanie. She’s standing in the middle of the empty bus that would eventually take them to L.A.; to Safe Zone C-5: California’s Naval Dockyard and Military base. She’s beautiful, with the yellow sun falling like silk on her pale white skin. She’s giving him the biggest smile she has with her full ruby lips and bright brown eyes. A scratchy static voice blasting outside of the bus repeats a mechanic, urgent message over and over again: _All civilians must evacuate immediately. All civilians must report to their assigned buses. All civilians must go. All civilians must run. All civilians must escape._ Ian looks to his left, just outside the scratched flexi glass.

The world turns orange.

Melanie taps him on the shoulder and he turns around to see that she is blue-eyed with greying lips and contorted horrifically from limb to limb. And he screams so loud that the bus windows shatter all around him. It rains shimmering rock crystals that cut his face and his hands until the sky caves in and the rain turns into blood.

He’s completely covered by the thick molasses-like consistency of the blood-rain now and his mouth begins to fill with it so that his screams turn into gargled, bubbling cries. He needs to get out. He can’t swallow. He can’t have his open wounds touch the infected blood but he’s covered in it. So his heart right about bursts through his chest in fear that he would become one of them.

Ian’s drowning now and a current washes him towards a growing pile overhead of grey, mangled, rotting bodies of the _Almost Dead._ All he can see is red, red, red and feel blood, blood, blood. He closes his eyes at the sickening sight and a hand wraps around his neck. He’s not only drowning but choking now, too.

He opens his eyes. Anthony’s the one holding onto his neck. They’re both floating in the thick liquid. Anthony’s eyes are blue and it sends a shiver right to Ian’s toes but otherwise, he is still Anthony with his dark hair and tanned skin. His friend is shouting at him to _run, get away from here, leave me, it’s all right, just go!_ But how can he go when Anthony’s got him by the throat and squeezing him to death?

“Anthony!” he cries, his voice oddly clear now in the gushing river of blood. But Anthony just keeps on telling him to _get away from me before it’s too late!_

Ian is almost out of air and he can feel his body convulsing from the loss. But then, at the very last second, the blood drains away and Ian blinks to find himself in his own bed with Anthony clicking away on the computer beside him. His heart hammers heatedly within his chest.

Anthony’s showing him a video, telling him to _look at this. They’re all dying._ He’s laughing. And he takes Ian’s hand and leads him to the living room where they’re filming their new sketch. _Take off your clothes, Ian._ _Monsters don’t wear clothes_.

“Okay,” Ian agrees and strips to his boxers. Anthony smiles at him and pokes Ian’s round belly, telling Ian he looks good in Anthony’s SpongeBob boxers and to return them when the day is over. “Okay,” Ian says again. Anthony lays a flat palm on top of Ian’s chest and Ian revels in the feel, blinking back sudden tears as he touches Anthony’s hand with his own.

A man in a doctor’s coat comes in from the kitchen with a clipboard and stethoscope hanging on his shoulder. He tells Anthony that he’s got diabetes and Anthony looks to Ian with horror. But it’s Type 2 and he just needs to watch what he eats and gives Anthony that new insulin drug to take before each meal.

 _Will I become a monster like Ian?_ Anthony asks and everybody – Barry, Steve, Mari and even the old guys that danced with Ian when he acted as bald guy – in the room nods. _Good. We’re best friends. We should do everything together. Friendship always wins, remember that, Ian._

“I’m not a monster,” Ian says but everybody keeps on nodding and looking at him. Anthony takes his hand off of Ian and pokes his belly again.

_You were so fat. But look at you now, Ian. You’re just like me._

“What?” Ian turns around to face the living room mirror and is stunned to see hollowed ice-blue eyes staring right back at him. His grey skin stretches all the way down to his toes. Ian starts to scream and is horrified to see himself with a wide open mouth full of blood so acidic it burns through his teeth and drips out of his throat onto the floor in front of him where Melanie lies dead, her chest sliced open with intestines just poking out of her peach white skin.

The mirror shatters and Ian wakes up with a scream on the tip of his tongue.

  
  
  


“Were you having a bad dream last night?”

Ian looks behind him at Anthony as he stamps out the fire from their breakfast. He’s still a little shaken by his dream and tired from the day before. But he’s used to it. Used to the after effects like an alcoholic is used to the constant drumming inside their heads after a night of liquid acid abuse.

Ian favours to study his boots instead of answering Anthony. He admits his friend’s patience for him is incredible. How long can these silences between Anthony’s questions and Ian’s half-hearted answers last before Anthony breaks? Ian thinks this as he realizes he’ll need new boots. The ones he took from some dying military guy are getting too small. He’s grown. He could take Anthony. He could snap Anthony’s skeletal forearms in two and punch his darkened face right in. His knuckles are rock hard steel compared to Anthony’s cookie crumble face. Now he’d definitely win during an arm wrestling match. Ian almost laughs at the thought.

Anthony’s still waiting for answer, patiently as he sits against a rock with his too big shirt torn and his gloves beside him on the ground. He's rubbing the back of his neck, most likely sore from sleeping on the forest floor for the first time (although, Ian can't fathom why Anthony hurts now when he's probably been sleeping in other unconventional places in the city for two and half years). His clothes and hair are stained with dirt. Anthony doesn’t know to avoid the twigs when they walk or not to step in mud so his shoes are all covered in dried dirt and pieces of yellow grass. His face is burnt at the hairline and peeling. He’ll need a hat, Ian thinks. The hollowed out cheekbones make Anthony look like a corpse along with his sagging grey skin.

Boots and a hat. They’ll need those things the next time they enter the city again. Ian tries not to let that lump of disgust come out of his throat every time he looks at Anthony.

“No,” Ian finally says. He kicks some dirt at Anthony when he scoffs at Ian. “Shut up, I wasn’t.”

“Sure, you weren’t, Ian,” Anthony says slowly, clearly teasing Ian with that horrible grin. “I’m sure you were just having a nice, erotic dream about somebody. Who was it that you called out for again?”

Ian turns bright red; his neck heating up like flame work. The only person he had called out for in his dream was Anthony but Ian knows he doesn’t talk in his sleep – not anymore. There was no way Anthony heard, unless Ian had somehow been so relaxed as to forget all the long nights of training himself to sleep half alert, categorize every sound before he closed his eyes and to wake at will if danger persisted. He would have scoffed right back at Anthony, called him a jerk face or a bitch but he suppresses the familiar banter that wants to come out of him naturally at the sound of Anthony’s voice.

Because Ian can take one look at Anthony – his skin the colour of stone and eyes that are indecisive between the earth and the sky – and realize that, no, this isn’t really Anthony. Not yet.

Instead, he ignores Anthony and starts to count his weapons. He hears Anthony’s defeated sigh and shifting behind him. Ian shouldn’t have his back to Anthony. He really shouldn’t. But he ignores that nagging defensive quip too and keeps counting: three service pistols, knife on each side of each ankle, one in his hand, and the Viking Sword he found in one of those collectible stores that nerds had spent hours sitting around a table playing with fantasy battle games and Pokémon card battles. It had even come with a manual that had explained the history of the Viking Sword. It reminds him of Link and the sword he’d use to fight. It was the only sort of sword training Ian had ever had: jab-jab, slash, slice at the screen with the nunchuck and hope that the Wii remote motion sensor picked up his scrambled movements.

A pang of sadness stabs into his chest. Fuck, playing video games was so much easier. Ian would give up anything to be able to be in his living room again with Anthony and play video games all night, just for one night or even for one measly hour. He’d give up his life. He’d give it all up. No matter that he had managed to keep himself alive for almost three years. No matter how hard he had worked to ensure that he’d live to see the sunrise after the sunset. No matter how many times he had to talk – scream – at himself out of suicide. Role-playing games in reality don’t have options to pause or lives that start up again after a Game Over.

He dealt with it. Ian deals with it, though. He deals with his suicidal tendencies that rise out of him in moments like this where he allows himself to _think_. A familiar itch calls to him as he wraps his hand around the handle of his sword, the cut on his palm sending sharp needles of pain all the way to his elbow as he grips hard.

Ian is startled out of his thoughts at the feel of Anthony sitting beside him on the ground. His tense grip on the sword turns his knuckles white. Ian has to stop himself from reacting and silences the beating in his ears. Anthony doesn’t seem to notice Ian’s tension and race of thoughts. Instead, his friend pulls back his sleeve to reveal blue veins under translucent silver skin. Anthony places his arm right up beside Ian’s own, the hairs on his skin tingling with the close contact. Again, Ian has to fight the urge to flinch, to take his arm back and to move away from Anthony.

“You’re bigger than me now,” Anthony says, his voice sounding soft and sad. “You’re probably bigger than all the burritos we’ve ever eaten.”

Ian relaxes, just a bit. He can’t stop the mirth tugging at his lips. Anthony is too easy and Ian lets the natural insulting response loose to his lips. “My dick’s always been bigger than yours.”

They stare at each other with straight faces, mouths twitching until Anthony gives in first and lets out a loud, familiar, head-thrown-back laugh. Ian laughs, too, for once (the first time in genuine hilarity and not morbid helplessness). He can just picture the old Anthony: the one with the flushed cheeks and too much stubble on his chin. His hair a mess after showering under his old grey beanie. His farmer’s tan from all the t-shirts he wore and the way he would scrunch his whole face into a pained look every time he tried to hold in a thunderous laugh. Ian can almost imagine it. He can almost pretend they’re not in the forest, not in L.A., not twenty-five and a lifetime away from normalcy. Not in a world where it feels like Ian is the only one _really_ alive.

Their laughter dies down to smiling sighs. Ian finds himself staring at Anthony’s hand and trying his best to push away the repulsion that assaults his thoughts at the colour of it. He wants to look at Anthony, see Anthony the way he used to. But –

“I know I’m gross,” Anthony says the words Ian’s been thinking. “I know, Ian. I _feel_ gross.”

Ian doesn’t say anything. Just slowly lets his eyes travel to Anthony’s face. Up the long neck, past the chin and the blue-tinged purple lips and finally, the eyes. Ian lets out a relieved sigh. Brown.

He’s okay with that. The repulsion isn’t so blinding when Anthony’s eyes are that amazing, beautiful shade of brown.

“Poop eyes,” Ian whispers. He doesn’t know he’s said it out loud until Anthony’s eyes flash with confusion.

“Thanks, man. I feel _much_ better,” Anthony says sarcastically. He smiles anyway when Ian laughs. “Do you remember the song?”

Ian shakes his head with a smile. “No. Wish I did though. It was an awesome song.”

“Yeah, it was.” Anthony’s grin is mesmerizing and Ian finds himself laughing more. His stomach hurts from this new but old, laughing-thing. It’s a weird feeling but Ian decides he likes it. It fills him up for a bit. It makes the sun shine brighter and feel warmer and the dark cloud of the abandoned city becomes just another unimportant, unassuming silhouette in the morning sky.

He misses it. And it’s nice. And Ian can pretend not to notice the way Anthony still hunches forward, how he growls under his breath or how when he’s almost at the point of delirium, his brown eyes become blue and Ian becomes absolutely terrified but ready all at the same time.

Ian’s laughter stops abruptly when he feels Anthony’s fingers ghosting over his bloodied bandaged palm. The touch is fleeting because Ian snatches his hand to his chest like he’s been burned, his expression falling back easily to its guarded state. Anthony’s own smile is gone and replaced with surprise.

“Don’t touch me,” Ian warns, almost spits at Anthony.

Anthony stutters, “Dude, I-I-I just – I’m not – Your hand, it’s –”

“If you want some, you could just ask.” Ian stands up and takes three steps away from his friend. He can hear the venom in his next words. “ _Don’t_ touch me again.”

Ian has to calm himself, stop his heaving chest and the anger that travels all the way to his head. They stare at each other for a long time; Ian with hot raging blood in his vision and Anthony with contrasting concern.

“That’s not what I –“ Anthony starts. He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his hands through his thin hair. He looks back up at Ian. “I don’t _want_ your blood. I don’t. I really, really, _don’t.”_

Ian settles as he looks into Anthony’s eyes. _Still brown._ _Keep it that way._ “You need it,” Ian states and unconsciously touches his bandaged palm. “Or you’ll –“

Ian stops when Anthony stands up and Ian instantly tenses up. His sword is on the floor, where he dropped it while laughing but he’s got his guns strapped to his hips. They’re a second a half from his fingertips and safety off. Anthony takes a step back, clearly noticing Ian’s ready stance.

The moment of laughter, of ignorance, of _let’s pretend it’s just another day_ , is broken. The weight of the quiet, _Sleeping_ , world crashes down around them.

“Ian,” Anthony says, eyebrows scrunched together and voice apprehensive. “What _happened?_ What happened when I was gone? What’s happening? What happened – to you?”

Ian’s answer is clear in is mind – _two years, seven months, thirteen days and nine hours of_ this, _of all of_ this – but the words never form. Instead, he says, “Nothing.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is he trying to convince that one day, the world might be all right again? Right now, that thought is nothing more than a dream, in a world where there are no dreams but of nightmares instead.

“You know, Ian, eventually, you’re gunna have to stop being an ass and talk to me,” Anthony says as he and Ian come along to a lake after walking for two hours. The city is just behind a twenty-minute trek of dry forest and sandy hills. If Anthony looks to the sky, he can just catch the glimpse of black smoke emerging from the burning buildings. “I don’t even know why you’re so freakin’ mad.”

Ian doesn’t stop in his steps, or acknowledge Anthony’s words. He just walks towards the still lake with steady, determined steps, head bent down with shoulders held high. Ian can be so stubborn and _stupid._ Anthony lets out a sigh and scratches at his irritated chin. He’s growing stubble – finally – and almost smiles but Ian’s form in front of him is so frustrating that he doesn’t even want to rejoice in this new human discovery.

_Right there –_

“Shut up,” Anthony whispers under his breath to himself. Ian hasn’t heard him; or if he has, he doesn’t pay mind to Anthony’s mutterings. The voice is growing steadily, more apparent in Anthony’s mind since yesterday. The growing rate of its presence is alarming, confusing and questionable but everything about himself, Anthony feels, is alarming, confusing and questionable. Why should this strange voice be any different?

It’s just part of him now, he guesses, and dismisses it. He’ll wait for it to disappear, to go away and become silent. Just like how he’ll wait for Ian to become Ian again; the one Anthony’s been missing since his fall into the Darkness. He knows Ian is there, somewhere, underneath the hard worn muscles and stern tanned face. Ian will emerge with laughter and jokes and everything will be all right.

All right. All right? What _is_ all right? All right was when Smosh went for a short ride downhill. All right was when the scientists said a recall of the drug was all that was needed. All right was also when they did a sketch about a real life first person shooter game killing zombies during an epidemic. All right was better than okay when their video didn’t quite sit well with the Internet then. And was it all right when the preliminary cautions turned into full-fledged warnings and protocols? It was definitely not all right at all when he went to be with his family, only to find his childhood home and everybody he loved become a biohazard.

Who is he trying to convince that one day, the world might be all right again? Right now, that thought is nothing more than a dream, in a world where there are no dreams but of nightmares instead.

And he had had one last night. Of death and blood – so much blood. Blood everywhere. Blood on his shirt. Blood on his hands. Blood in his mouth. The taste of blood made him think of more blood until he was drowning in it and it was Ian calling his name – in his dream – that woke Anthony from his nightmare.

He had woken up to pitch black. There were no stars. No moon. No light. And he had been afraid that he had fallen into the Darkness again. He was paralyzed from fear that the aberration of his dream was real. It wasn’t until an incoherent mumble from his immediate left that Anthony was relieved to realize he was in the forest with Ian in the night. The stars swiftly reappeared overhead and the muffled light of the moon behind dark clouds caught Anthony’s peripheral.

He had laughed then. Had to cover his mouth with his own hand to keep quiet, but his chest rumbled with hysterical laughter. It was an odd reaction to have, which made Anthony laugh even more.

Everything was so stupid; so, so, very, _stupid_. They were both sleeping in the forest because they had no home. He’d been running around almost naked for two and half years doing God knows what. And here he was now, dreaming about blood and hearing a voice in his head that told him blood was good for him like he was some kind of sick goddamn vampire.

And everything sucks. Every – fucking – thing _sucks_.

How is he supposed to keep on living?

It was some time before Anthony had settled his dark thoughts and found himself shifting closer to Ian’s barely lit silhouette. He had dared to lay a hand on his friend’s chest, feel Ian’s heart beat under his palm and revel in the way it moved up and down. There was no voice and Anthony was thankful for that. He had almost fallen asleep that way, until Ian jolted awake. Anthony had quickly retracted his hand, frowning as he had watched Ian, as the other gulped for air, eyes wide open and hands trembling as they felt all over his body.

Ian had turned to his side, his back to Anthony and lain still afterwards. But Anthony heard the small whisper of a whimper from Ian, heard the almost-scream stop short in his friend’s throat. Knew that Ian is just as afraid as he is.

And then the voice had materialized again, just like it is now mere hours later, saying, _Should take him now. Have to. Must._

Anthony grinds his teeth together to hold his words inside. The sharpness of his incisors pinches the inside of his lip and he brings his hand up to find a dribble of blood coming out from the new cut. It’s dark red and purple on the tip of his finger. He doesn’t feel any pain though, but fascination at the sight. It’s so peculiar that he stops walking and doesn’t hear the sound of splashing water until he looks up to see Ian waist deep in the lake and stabbing with his sword at the rocks for fish.

A voice inside his head snarls, _Tastes like him_ , _doesn’t it?_

“No,” Anthony denies, and watches Ian’s back as his friend walks deeper into the lake until he’s chest high in the glistening, rippling water.

_Could just drown him. Then take him._

Anthony follows Ian to the bank and thinks about taking off his shoes but Ian’s got them on, too. So he opts to leave them on and hops in after his friend. He’s ankle deep in the surprisingly warm water as the afternoon sun beats down on his face. It burns and it makes his tight skin itch. Ian’s splashing ten feet from him is like the bass to the melody of birds chirping around them.

And the voice inside his head whispers the grotesque lyrics to the song: _He’s yours. Have him. Take him. Go. Must. Do it._

Anthony closes his eyes, swallows and feels the breeze ribbon through his fingertips, soft and feather-like. The water laps at his ankles and for a few seconds it feels like he’s moving with the wind behind him, urging him forward as the voice says, _Right there. For you. All for you._

_Yours._

_He’s yours._

_Yours, yours, yours._

The sound of water splashing and the feel of wetness on his face suddenly has Anthony panting hard and breath wheezing out of his lungs. Anthony opens his eyes to find he’s got a wet slippery fish in the grip of his hand and his fingernails dig deep into its scales. It’s squishy and strong. He looks up to see Ian, waist twisting around and staring at Anthony. A look of surprise flashes in his friend’s face and then disappears. But Anthony’s seen it.

_You’ve scared him._

He ignores the voice in his head and instead, quickly throws the fish behind him onto the dusty beige bank, not being able to hold onto the thrashing creature any longer.

“Lunch?” Anthony breathes and smiles. He looks into Ian’s eyes for approval.

Ian nods as he walks past Anthony with his sword dragging behind him across the rocks.

“That was…” Ian starts, voice small and hesitant. Anthony turns to see a grin on Ian’s face, tense, but it’s a grin nonetheless. He smiles back, relief like what he felt after his dream, filling up his chest. “That was pretty awesome.”

The voice is quiet for now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything seems manageable for the moment. Calm, and silent, for now.

When Ian looks into the sky, he can see the snow of the ashes floating all around him. The smell invades his senses, pushes away the dusty, earthy scent of the lake and instead, brings him back to the burning concrete and gasoline-fire of the city. The stench of burnt skin almost turns his insides out.

Birds turn into screams. The gentle rustling of leaves and branches turn into the violent howl of breaking buildings and the hammering pounding of running feet. Green and brown and blue and beige turn into hot red and drowning grey.

When Ian looks into the sky and closes his eyes, he is back two years, seven months and thirteen days and in the heart of Los Angeles. The heart that is bleeding and breaking down, its arteries cut off and veins severed. Life neither comes into the walls of its atriums nor leaves it.

He can still remember Melanie. Ian can almost hear her voice, crying and begging. Worst of all, he can still feel her fear and sometimes, he doesn’t know if it was hers or his own fear now. He wishes he could conjure up the memories of before – life during Smosh and his happy one – but Ian hardly does, because he might never want to open his eyes again or breathe another breath.

He did leave Los Angeles. After days of looking and panic. Ian had almost starved to death and once, he had almost died. He can still remember screaming at the top of his lungs, hurling himself against the _Almost Dead_ and feeling the first, surprising, teeth sink into his arm. It was exhilarating and dangerous and so very _real_ and he thought nothing like death could be this real. But it had turned out he hadn’t died. Somehow he found himself hours later alive and not _Asleep_ , not dead. Still in the hell hole that was the earth. One of the _Almost Dead_ gasping for air at his feet.

He didn’t have a sword, or a knife, or guns with him then. Had he, he might not be with Anthony right now. Anthony had caught more fish and Ian had stood on the edge of the bank, watching, as his friend waded in the water and struck lightening fast several times into the barrier of the lake. Sometimes Anthony comes out with nothing, but most times, a thrashing, shiny fish appears in his hand and it is squeezed to death before its body hits the sandy earth. He manages to catch six great fish in the end, four of them slipping out of Anthony’s grip.

A lump in Ian’s throat forms every time the squish-squash of the dead fish falls at his feet. It settles in the depths of his own gut now as he watches Anthony biting into their lunch.

“You look so stupid right now,” Anthony says, with a mouthful of charred food. The fire crackles in between them, its heat battling with the hotness of the afternoon.

Ian blinks. “What?”

Anthony gestures at Ian with a nod of his chin, mouth full and swallows. “With your mouth hanging open like a retard and staring off into space. And you’ve got no pants, sitting on a rock.”

Ian looks down at himself, indeed pants-less and only wearing a pair of boxers with his too hairy legs sprawled before him. He laughs a little. His wet pants and shoes are laid out in the sun and drying. “So? You’re shoeless.”

“Yeah, but I don’t look stupid,” Anthony says again, grimacing lightly at Ian. “Don’t you have another pair of pants?”

“You’re wearing ‘em, you bastard.”

“Well, _sorry_. If you weren’t so stupid, you would’ve thought better before jumping in the water, douche.” Anthony laughs as Ian pulls a scowl at him. “At least close your legs or something. I’m scared I’m gunna see your balls hanging out the next second.”

Ian feels his face heat up, embarrassed, and quickly turns his body to the side, away from Anthony. “Shut up... bitch.”

Silence washes over them. And Ian finds himself thinking about Anthony and his questions and the answers Ian knows he owes his friend. He knows that eventually Anthony will have to know what Ian is waiting for – what Ian is reluctantly preparing for. But – Anthony is so patient and Ian is grateful for that small gift because what if this wait was all for nothing? Ian is not willing to give up all of defenses for nothing.

Instead, Ian will paint the façade of normality (or at least what he _can_ create with what little they had). He will not be angry with Anthony. He will not be wary of his friend who sounds completely like his _friend_ when he closes his eyes but transforms into the stuff of Ian’s nightmares when he opens them. Ian can pretend. He’s been able to convince himself for two years, seven months and thirteen days that one day, everything will be normal.

“So,” Ian starts. He catches Anthony’s attentive eyes, brown and very dark unlike the sky that frames their landscape today. They help Ian go on. “How’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“The weird fish-catching thing.”

A small guilty look forms right before Anthony swallows and shrugs. “I don’t know.”

But Ian knows. How else do they keep on being _Almost Dead_ and not entirely dead? They’re solitary creatures, only crossing paths with one another when rats and other small creatures all died along in the empty walls of the city. A small thought about Charlie flutters through his mind. He had had to put Charlie down before leaving Sacramento. A few months before that, it would have been odd to request to euthanize a guinea pig, but by then, nobody had anymore pets.

Ian nods in response, watching Anthony from the corner of his eye. What had Anthony done that he doesn’t know himself? How many things has he killed? How much does his body remember that his mind cannot? Anthony knows nothing.

Ian knows. He’s seen them. It’s not hard to forget what he’s seen. He wishes he could but some sick part of him likes to remember and it sets him apart from everything else. It allows Ian to return to the city when he needs to – that same exhilaration only present when he hears the crunch of broken glass under his feet and taste the addictive fumes of plastic and metal.

The fear keeps him out though. Which is good, he reminds himself, as he digs his nails into his wounded palm.

“Are we,” Anthony says and pulls Ian out of his thoughts, “going to go anywhere today?” He’s a little tentative, hesitant and unsure. At least he still understands subtlety – not something Ian is used to anymore.

Ian answers him quietly, “No.” Anthony nods and throws his fish bones in the fire. He looks like he wants to say more, but goes against it. Ian pretends not to notice Anthony scrunching his eyes closed and shaking his head. A breeze picks up and tangles itself in the fire in front of them. “This is a good place for tonight. My pants are still wet anyways and you… you can catch dinner again.”

Another nod and more wind. Anthony’s mouth gaping open and Ian waiting for Anthony to speak. And Ian is not really sure if he wants to have this conversation.

Maybe two and half years ago, Ian wouldn’t have been able to shut his mouth and Anthony would know all his thoughts by now. Anthony would know what they were doing, if there was a place they were heading to and what Ian is waiting for. But that was a long time ago and it’s been a long, _long_ time.

“I’m…” Anthony begins. He clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. Ian moves a little, too, the chill running up his bare legs. “I’m sorry – about this morning. I wasn’t trying anything. I’m sorry if… if I scared you, or something.”

Ian shrugs and sees Anthony’s almost laughable pained face. “You’re not _that_ scary.” The relief in Anthony’s eyes is unexpectedly fast to appear. For a second, it makes Ian feel good – that these brown eyes can look so lax and happy in the light of forgiveness. Again, it urges Ian to go on and say reassuring words like, “I’m just – I’m sorry, too. I’m just not used to _—_ ”

“Yeah, I get it, Ian.” Anthony offers him a smile. “Don’t worry about it, man.”

But Ian doesn’t really smile back, no matter how nice it is that Anthony understands, or says he does. He doesn’t want a repeat of this morning. Of Ian letting himself go and thinking that everything could be okay and that Anthony’s smiles, appearing on a face so unfamiliar and _changed_ , can make things better.

He’ll just nod and throw his dirty fish bones at Anthony, close his eyes and listen to Anthony yell half-heartedly at him and his friend’s laughter.

Ian will just _pretend_ until he knows he’ll have to either unravel his bandaged, blood-crusting hand, or unclick the safety of his gun and point it steady in front of him.

  
  
  


They spend the rest of the afternoon and until the sky turns orange and dusts the lake with honey, fishing. It’s more like Anthony spends it fishing while Ian tries to, but fails to grab anything but dirty seaweed and grainy mud. Anthony can’t help laughing at Ian after his friend’s umpteenth attempt at trying to catch those “damn freakin’ pieces of crap” fails, and Ian finally gives up, sulking, _still_ pants-less, at the edge of the lake.

When Anthony is fishing, methodically scanning below for a watery shadow, the voice helps him. It’s odd and something he can’t explain. The voice is louder, spilling to Anthony words that he can’t completely understand at a speed faster than when he’s sitting in front of Ian and a fire but it’s manageable. And it helps.

Somehow he can use the noise to create a focus for his body to _fish –_ just to fish – and to block out whatever else is crowding his mind space. He’s so caught up in bending his knees, breathing in, and targeting the tell-tale silhouette of _dinner_ that he almost forgets he’s in the woods, that he’s with Ian who doesn’t speak more than two sentences to him, even after Anthony’s shot-in-the-dark apology, and the fact that it wasn’t until yesterday that his mind has been so chaotic.

The fishing settles him somewhat. It’s something he can manage – both catching fish and the unrelenting voice in his head. It’s something he can do. Something he has some sense of control over so he’s not some poor excuse of a weak human that can’t do anything except watch Ian from the sidelines as his friend builds fires and chases after birds and squirrels. It’s something he can do other than _listen_ to the voice and want to do what the voice tells him to do. This way, he can drown it out like he drowns the fish he catches in air. He almost forgets that there isn’t a twisted _mutation_ of a human lurking below the glassy lake, staring up into him, reminding him of what he is every time he looks down.

He’s lost in the voice saying over and over again, _yours, yours, yours, yours, more, get more,_ that he doesn’t hear Ian ask him to be quiet, or to stop. He doesn’t see Ian walking slowly to his right around the bank of the lake or him cracking a branch off of a naked dying tree. It isn’t until Anthony’s hand plunges into the water and grasps the thrashing creature – and the voice disappears for those few satisfying seconds – that he hears Ian’s loud cry, another impossibly horrid screech and the voice in his head booming with the word _MINE_ when he sees Ian on the ground fighting with a writhing inhumane grey _thing_ on top of him.

Anthony doesn’t know what he does next, but whatever he does, it speeds by in blurry frantic colours and the loud panicking, heart-pounding voice in his head screaming at him to protect what was _theirs_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The logical thing to do when coming across a monster is to kill it.

Ian tries not to look at the _thing’s_ beryl blue eyes, rimmed with sickeningly greyed redness and wide with chaos. Instead, keeps his focus on the locket the _Almost_ Dead wears. Something tells him the necklace is familiar but Ian is too busy struggling underneath it, trying to create an opening to strike, to hit, to punch, to do anything besides keeping its screaming face away from his. Its shrill shrieks ring in his ears, and he’s being stabbed by what he thinks is the piercing sound of his own name coming out of a creature that should no longer know speech.

He doesn’t know what hurts more: the brittle, jagged rocks beneath or the splintered surface of the branch that keeps him and the creature apart. It caught him off guard, pounced onto his back. Ian had to forcibly twist and drag his body around as they hit the ground. It grapples at his face; flailing and screaming and kicking and hitting him in a distressed blur so that Ian is overwhelmed, hardly able to catch his breath. When he thinks he’s able to conjure up the strength to get the _thing_ off of him, the inhuman screeching is cut short by a fist not of his own. Anthony looks absolutely livid as he grabs _it_ by the shoulders and hurls the creature with volatile force onto the ground. Ian takes the free chance to stand, swinging the branch over his head and nearly cracking open the creature’s skull.

The high snap of bone and wood is satisfying.

“I had it,” Ian pants, ribcage expanding painfully. Searing heat soars up from the top sole of his foot to a pounding sting in the left of his thigh. The lake’s bank isn’t exactly a good place to fall with its pebbles and dry sand scattered all around.

Anthony’s eyes look wild, wide and darting, his chest heaving and his hands balled up into tight fists. “Yeah?” he says breathlessly, an almost-laugh half born out of disbelief, “Didn’t look like it, dude. What the hell – what – are you all right?” His arms reach out to a particularly large gash on Ian’s bare leg but Ian swats his hand away. “Told you to wear some pants.”

“It’s fine,” Ian says with an intake of breath at the pain as he stretches his waist around to observe the wound. A sharp hurt runs up his leg and swirls around his gut. The swirling becomes a twister as he gazes down at the creature before their feet. “Fuck. What the _fuck?_ _Shit!_ It’s not supposed to be _here_. Shit, shit, _shit_!”

They look down at it. Anthony is still panting, as if he has just run a marathon, the sheen of glistening perspiration on his peach-blue forehead. Ian’s own breath matches Anthony’s as he tries to calm his whole body. He has to stop himself from jumping three feet in the air and running out of fear, despite his exhaustion. His back and sides ache, and his lungs are on fire from the exertion. He spots a few blossoming popped veins on the underside of his elbow where his arm reverberates with the leftover effects of his burst of strength. It reminds him of the cut on his palm, which is incontrovertibly open again, and bleeding where it had wrapped around the broken branch he had ripped off of a tree. The branch is stained with a mix of his blood and that of what he thinks is the blood of the _Almost Dead_. Ian hardly feels the pain, though. It’s just a faint **,** dull and distant _thump_ compared to the fear piling into forefront of his mind.

“They’re not supposed to be here,” Ian whispers to himself incredulously. “We’re too far away…”

The _thing_ is hardly clothed. Bald. Skin so thin, so tight it's borderline unbelievable that anything inside stays in - then again, if there's anything inside, it’s probably horrifically mutated by now. Ian imagines the rotting organs grappling to their sorry excuse at life. He can see each vertebrate; sharp like needlepoint weapons found on dinosaurs, or dragons, or monsters. Its clothes are greying with grime that creeps unevenly along the seams like gangrene. Its infected wounds **:** bubbling with crusting blood, seeping out grey dirty liquid. And its eyes – its eyes are blue. Ian shivers at the thought, the bitter similarity that he wants no part of. The twinkling of the necklace from its human days is the only clean thing on its body. The familiarity of it drops an unwanted memory in mind. _It’s like the one Melanie had_ , Ian thinks.

Even more hatred fills his nose because not only has the _thing_ showed up unwanted – invaded his last threads and veils of safety and his sad attempt at normality – but it’s making Ian _remember_ things, _hope_ for things that shouldn’t be, that once were but aren’t today.

Melanie died. Just like how she dies over and over again in his dreams. Those dreams fuel his loathing for these monsters even further; trying to weaken him with what once was his in a different, long gone, world.

But this is not her. It can’t be. She’s dead.

Its chest shudders with staggered breath and a small whimpering screech sounds from it even in its unconsciousness. The cries it made while battling with Ian on top echo, a piercing scream through his mind. He pretends not to think it was yelling out his name.

Ian can’t handle the pain shooting up his leg, or his hammering **,** frantic heart fuelled by fear and adrenaline, or the disgusting vile contortion before him. It reminds him of the first few days of the outbreak, when things were just picking up speed and people would drop dead on the streets – the normal, unassuming everyday streets that would eventually crumble into greying wastes and shadows of civil life. The bodies were always marred beyond recognition and it all seemed so _alien_. But it was always somebody’s mom, or dad; grandma or grandpa; son or daughter; brother or sister; friend or loved one. And everyday Ian would make jokes as the news reported more and more deaths, then murders, until eventually, Ian was silent with fear. He woke up each morning in cold sweat and a heart that would not slow until he’d feel Melanie beside him and saw Anthony’s brown eyes. And now, in this green and brown canopy of nature, this _thing_ from the hells puts him both back into the painful past and right here in this agonizing present.

It’s gross. It’s unnatural. It’s so fucking _revolting_ that Ian takes one gigantic breath before turning around and vomiting out all of the day's food, branch dropping from his grip. The bitter, foul taste of his insides is horrible and his tears blur his vision. For a second, the emptiness in his stomach calms him.

There is a cry of concerned confusion from Anthony and a hand that lingers on the small of his back, itching a little too close for comfort to Ian’s open wound. Ian violently shrugs off Anthony’s hand and takes a step back, embarrassment at his moment of weakness turning to a reproachful glare directed at the other.

“We should take a look at your leg, Ian,” Anthony says. “It’s… bleeding. It’s bleeding _a lot._ ”

Ian shakes his head and looks from the _Almost Dead_ thing to Anthony’s ashen face, transfixed to the scarred spot on his thigh. The dazed expression on Anthony’s face makes Ian turn to his side, wound farthest away from the other. “Do you know it?” Ian’s question is lost to Anthony. He growls over the taste of his acidic vomit in his mouth and asks again with louder, slower words, “Do you _know_ it?”

“What? Of course not. What are you – ”

“Good, then,” Ian interrupts and limps over a half step towards the creature. He contemplates putting on his drying shoes but there’s no time. They can’t risk it. They have to get rid of _it_ , quick and _now_ because Ian can’t take it having it here in the green and the clear air and the _safety_ of nature. His bare foot nudges the hard ribcage of the still, breathing monster. The feel of his toes against thin taut skin is nothing short of disgusting. “No hard fucking feelings.” He lays the flat sole of his foot and digs his heel in between its ribs and pushes, grits his teeth and forces the body to roll in the direction of the lake.

“What are you doing?” Anthony steps over between the body and the lap of the lake. “What? You’re just going to – what?”

“Get out of the _fucking_ way, Anthony,” Ian warns bitterly, wincing as his other leg protests against the strain. “Or help me with this.”

Anthony splutters and finally manages out, eyes wide, “N-No! What do you think you’re doing? You’re gunna drown her? You’re not going to _kill_ her, are you?”

Ian looks up with menace. “Her? _Her?”_ he spits. It’s almost physically disgusting, the words coming out of their mouths. How can Anthony even tell it’s a female? “If you want to be safe, Anthony, just fucking _move_.”

Anthony doesn’t budge, stands his ground and looks about ready to fight. He huffs out, “What’s going on, Ian? Why is she here?”

“How the hell should I know?” Ian almost shouts in the dampened silence, pushing at the body with his foot again until the creature is face up, its emaciated shoulder pressed against Anthony’s shins. Ian can feel both his own and Anthony’s shudders at the – now – placid, sleeping excuse of a face. It’s horrible to look at. Lines of grim and stretched skin more than ready to break. And a grey colour so inhumane one could never imagine such a shade on a living thing. “It probably fucking followed you –” he cuts his words short, not wanting another argument. “Anthony,” Ian says hoarsely, then adds out of desperation, “ _please_. Move. Shit, we _can’t –_ ” Panic creeps in from his fingertips like needles, out of nowhere.

“You think it did? You think there are others?”

Ian takes a frantic look around, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary through his hazy, frightened state, lets out a breath. “Crap, better not be. I _really_ hope not.” He turns back to his friend. “Anthony,” he starts.

“No, Ian,” Anthony says. He looks like he wants to push Ian with the way his hands out in front of him. Ian knows he’d push Anthony away, or punch him out, if he felt they couldn’t stall for another few minutes. If he didn’t want to give Anthony a chance. And if Anthony didn’t look so damn scared. _Any second now, it could wake up_. “You can’t do that, dude. No way. You can’t – you _won’t_ kill her.”

“Move, Anthony. Stop being a douche! Fuck! I don’t want to pick it up, but I will if I have to.” The thought of crumbling bones and deteriorating skin in his arms makes him sick enough to almost vomit again. Fuck his stupidity for leaving his weapons by the fire. He can see the gleam of his Viking sword in his mind. He’d done it again; let Anthony make him feel okay, normal, almost safe. Twice in a day.

Ian was getting soft.

He wishes Anthony would just give up but the other only gives him an unwavering stare. Angrily, Ian digs his heel deeper in between the thing’s ribs. He can feel the oncoming crunch of frail bone under his foot.

“Ian, what the hell? Stop!” This time Anthony does get his hands on Ian but Ian is faster, grabbing Anthony’s wrist with a tight bloody grip and twisting it at the elbow. Anthony lets out a loud, pained yell, right as Ian lets go.

“ _Don’t,_ ” Ian warns between his teeth, sending a searing glare at Anthony through hard eyes. The other man takes a step back, gasping and clutching at his arm. There’s blood on Anthony’s wrist where Ian’s cut palm was, and his hand blazes with a renewed sting.

Ian’s sorry for a second as he watches Anthony wincing in pain. He’s almost just as fragile. But Ian pushes the feeling away. There wasn’t – _isn’t_ – time for sympathy – not for Anthony and definitely not for _that_.

“What the fuck was that for? I wasn’t trying anything, goddamnit, Ian. I – ” He stops. Takes a step back. Ian watches as Anthony closes his eyes and scrunches them tight. He’s been noticing Anthony doing this for the past few days. Sometimes Ian hears the hurried, thrash words he whispers to himself. Like now, as Anthony brings a bloodied wrist to his face. “ _No. No. No!”_

Ian hesitates to do something, apprehensive and wishing he had taken the time to figure out what this was all about before. It always looked like Anthony was just suppressing the urge to strangle Ian just because of how fucking uptight he had been around his friend. But now as Anthony looks to be near hysterics, jaw tight, and neck flushed, Ian figures it’s more than that.

Especially now with the way Anthony hunches forward, arms pulled tightly in toward himself so that his shoulders poke out of his thin shirt like blades.

Ian allows his thoughts to settle and connect with each other like magnets. Like the way Anthony’s eyes spark with something reminiscent of the hue above their heads. And the _fear_. Its presence smacks down hard around him and drives Ian’s breath like a drill into his stomach and for a second, Anthony is more dangerous than the limp body under his foot.

Ian counts quickly in his head: gun, behind him. Knife, not by his side. And the branch, close but still too far. Would he be quick enough? Anthony is turning again, Ian’s sure of it. He’s convinced fully now, as Anthony’s whole body shudders and twists. He’s falling into the _Darkness._. Oh _god_ , Ian will have to kill again.

If Anthony turns now, Ian will have to kill him just like the rest of _them_. Never mind the memories, the barrage of attachments he sometimes wishes didn’t exist – besides, if Anthony turns, it’s not like the sentimentality within him will remain.

 _Fuck_.

“ _Oh!”_

Anthony’s eyes snap like lightning from his wrist to Ian’s ready gaze.

“Blood,” Anthony practically shouts. The idea contorts his stricken face into an almost-smile. Irises shining _brown_ , a gateway to their fragmented normality. “She’s not dead yet, Ian. You could save her. Cure her! Your blood!”

_Brown. As long as you stay that way, Anthony. Please don’t change._

Ian lets go of the violent breath he was holding. It’s a moment before Anthony’s words register in Ian’s mind. He’s flustered, heart stressed out by everything and everyone. His chest hurts. The prospect of what Ian thought was going to happen letting dizziness fray the edges of his vision.

Anthony’s words remind Ian that, no, they’re not dead yet. That Ian is full of blood. He had technically saved Anthony with what he was born with and which keeps himself alive.

Ian had saved Anthony. _He needs to remember that._

But save her? Save this _thing?_ Ian can’t do that. Ian won’t. He shakes his head, mumbles under his breath, _no, no, no_ as he tries again to get Anthony to move.

“Why the hell not?” Anthony says, eyes pleading. Not listening to Ian at all. “You _have_ to, Ian.”

“ _No._ Don’t try to be a _hero_. Not for _this.”_ Ian’s not listening either. Not really seeing Anthony, as he asks again _why?_ His mind is playing tricks on him, flashing from one moment where the thing is moving and scratching at him, snarling and biting, to now where its just a limp piece of – about to die, if Ian was going to do anything about it – _shit_. Salt-water seems to run through Ian’s veins, suffocating his heart with more fear because the vision in his mind distorts from the thing’s face to Anthony’s own. But Anthony is in front of Ian (not crazed, or limp, or dead), kneeling down too close, bending his knee so that it almost touches the thing’s shoulder and reaching a hand towards its head. Panicked, Ian lunges forward with a shout and they both hit the ground in a tangled mess with their heads slamming into the shallow water together.

“Motherf—!” Ian coughs, and spits out a mouthful of sand and water, struggling on top of Anthony as he grabs fistfuls of the other’s wet shirt. Somewhere in between the splashing and the cursing, Ian ends up with a busted, bleeding lip and knuckles throbbing from the memory of Anthony’s temple. The old wounds on Ian’s leg and palm react with the water like acid would with vinegar as he straddles Anthony’s thrashing hips. His chin is knocked in the air when Anthony tries to break away.

Fingernails peel skin and leave trails of red. Ian chokes from the metallic, sharp taste of blood. He slams Anthony against the pebbles and the surface of the water repeatedly, all the while shouting, “ _What the fuck were you thinking? It’s dangerous! It’s a fucking monster! It could kill you – they could kill you again!”_

“What the fuck? _You’re_ gunna kill me!” Anthony screams, cheeks flushed with rage and an echoing growl of venomous, multiplied malformed sound that immobilizes Ian long enough so that Anthony, even though skinnier and sharp as a fleshless skeleton, is able to flip Ian onto his back. Anthony’s strength surprises Ian. Yesterday, Ian thought he could take Anthony. Yesterday, Anthony could hardly stand a walk for more than twenty minutes. Yesterday, Anthony hadn’t been able to catch fish with his bare hands. Yesterday, Anthony was weak.

But yesterday was yesterday, and yesterdays can’t be relied on any more. Anything can change in the blink of time’s eye.

Now half of Ian’s face is pressed into the water as Anthony holds him at a chokehold. He’s drowning in water and no air. He splutters and claws at Anthony’s hands, almost able to wrench the fingers from his throat but when Ian catches a glimpse of the other’s face – a full-front warring rage, barred teeth and, _Oh god_ – Ian gasps, allowing the other’s death grip to tighten even more.

Ian can’t even scream, or move, or _breathe_ because Anthony’s eyes are _blue_.

And then from behind, a hunched figure overcasts a dark looming shadow over them, so that Ian is staring up at two pairs of bright, almost white, _blue_ eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality and nightmare mix together and friends unite.

The voice overtakes him. Says things to him until he believes it. Until his body moves on its own accord and he has Ian’s life in his palm, clenched tight, and held under water.

_Yours. So close._

The water of the lake is clouded in pink, a halo around Ian’s head. His face is stark white and mouth open in a gasp. Eyes wide and the dusty-orange light of the setting sun moves off of Ian’s face. Something inside Anthony finds it invigorating and it squirms in delight, coiling round the stem of his brain and demanding his fingers to squeeze harder, stronger and tighter. The dark red of Ian’s blood on his paling lips tantalizes Anthony as he greedily takes the sight beneath him.

_Take him. Take him. Take him and have him._

The skin under his hands beats wildly, throbbing with human heat and he can almost hear the wash of coursing blood through the channels of Ian’s body. He doesn’t feel and doesn’t care for his own blood dripping out of his nose or the heat of his bruising cheek and the cool water that laps at his bare calves is paid no mind. Ian – it’s just Ian now, laid out beneath him with his body full of hot, living, _moving_ blood and Anthony can just _take him, have him, because he’s mine and mine and mine nobody else’s but mine –_

The mantra in his head tangles and ties around the contours of his every nerve until it connects with the words he speaks aloud and then it’s one voice, forcing his neck down and his lips to hover just over Ian’s, where there’s just a single drop of blood seeping through moistened broken skin, mixing and twirling with another drop of river water. It’s beautiful, really, and it captures all of Anthony’s attention. Ian’s breath escapes shaky and restricted, laced fully with fear, blowing delicious, insatiable heat against Anthony’s sweaty skin, as cool and as unpredictable as the similarly trembling water.

He stares into the blue quivering eyes which widen and stretch with a real fear that only makes Anthony tighten his hold round Ian’s neck. The pulse of Ian’s Adam’s apple is frantic and hard against the curve of Anthony’s thumb, just like the desperate gasps as he attempts to breathe. And it would be so easy to just dig into the flesh with his fingers, wedge between the strings of muscles and find the lifeline of red underneath. Want and need curl within Anthony’s chest – not for Ian but for his _body_ \- as he feels it rumble and shake. The feeling springs forth from there, blurring the edges of his vision with ribbons of darkness until Ian underneath – close and a single gem of ruby on his lip– seems to be clouded by a dark, soul-sucking shadow.

And then, from behind them, a screech – “ _IAN!”_

Anthony swings around and comes face to face with _her_. She’s incredibly close and a thread of fear catches him, telling him this is dangerous, unnatural and hadn’t she been wanting what was his before? His nose bumps into her cheek and she snarls, staggering back an inch but screams again, “ _STOP!”_ Saliva flies from her mouth and hits Anthony’s eyes. He shakes his head, a feral growl bubbles out of his throat as he glares back at her. Her eyes squint up at the rays of the setting orange sun and her thin translucent grey skin hisses at the touch of light, shrivelling as moisture leaves remnants of cracks on its broken surface, only satiated at calf level in the water. His own skin tingles and he feels pops and twists bursting one by one inside of him. He eyes her suspiciously, thinking she wants what is his _and no no no, mine he’s mine_ “ _MINE!_ ” he screams. His grip tightens firmly – possessive and protective – around Ian’s throat even as the other starts thrashing and struggles to find his voice.

He doesn’t understand the sounds though – from Ian. It just sounds like buzzing noise, convoluted echoes that bounce into his ear and back out until Anthony’s looking at Ian; his moving mouth with that decoration of pearly red being enveloped by black water and shifting shadows and wondering – for half a second – who this was and _oh, look, there’s mine red, red, pretty red and there I need to have it now now now now_

_“STOP!”_

Screaming again. What is it? Look behind him. It’s _her_. What does she want? He can’t have his. No, no, no, never. He opens his mouth and screams back again: “ _MINE!”_

She holds out her arms and wails, “ _IAN!”_ What follows is her screeching an ear-shattering crescendo, and holding out her thin, shaking grey arms to him. Her battered body buckles down and she drops onto her knees, almost slipping. Her head just shies from hitting onto the slippery, jagged rocks below. There’s a trail of muted blue blood running down the side of her ear and it’s nothing like the beautiful color of red; breathing, dancing red. An exhale and she touches her empty chest for something – it’s shiny and golden.

“ _STOP,”_ she cries and tugs at the chain round her neck. The metal slices her thin papery skin. _“IAN! HERE!”_ She winces as her voice shatters and breaks. “… _I’m here.”_

Anthony watches her, feeling familiarity guzzle away his confusion, sucking willpower and force into an unreachable vacuum. He recognizes the voice and images splinter by in his mind of someone along side him, constantly telling him to find someone, to get to someone, to find what was theirs. It was always dark and wherever they rested, it was concrete and grey that bedded them. _Ian_ , the voice had said in the _Darkness_. _Ours. Our friend._

She screams once more; savage and sadness and madness all running in her sound as she launches towards him, feet leaving the shallow of the lake and trailing strings of droplets behind her, body propelling into the air to him and face stretched in a gruesome, grey stretch. She flies in the air for a moment, at merciful liberty and hopelessly dangerous all at once. And Anthony’s body goes slack and his fingers lose their edge on what he was holding onto so tight before. It slips from his grasp and pushes him off.

Cold. Realization so wrong it hurts. “Melanie?”

Then the next thing he hears is the crush of stone against his head and then – darkness.

*

_I’m dying._

Ian’s vision starts to blur at the edges, distorting his other senses as he feels himself lose the battle to stay conscious and to breathe, staring up at Anthony’s face that comes closer to his, marred with a growing viciousness. Anthony’s face is feral, close and ugly. Even though Ian’s sight swims and dips between present and darkness, he can still see the way Anthony’s face changes; the skin starts to grey, veins appear through and fill with cold silver blood, and his eyes are completely translucent cold, cold, cold, _blue_. And all Ian can think about is that this is the last thing he’s going to see before dying, before he gets his neck ripped apart by a monster that’s really his best friend through it all. It reminds Ian of his dream, where Anthony and he are drowning one minute but then back safely at home the next.

He wants that. He wants to be drowning and then wake up. Maybe this is a nightmare. Maybe he’s dreaming his annoying dream again and they’ll be at home, he’ll turn into a monster, Melanie will die again, over and over again, and then he’ll _wake up_. He’d rather be in his nightmare that he hates and that splits him open in fifty different ways than not, because the darkness will lift and turn to morning and he will open his eyes. Then it would just be that: a nightmare. And he’ll wake up and won’t feel a single ounce of heat because the air-conditioner’s sunken to the lowest it can go and there’s yesterday’s Dr. Pepper on the table, disgustingly warm and flat in the summer afternoon.

So he wills himself to wake up as he stares into Anthony’s blind _blue_ eyes, an undercurrent of darkness swirling beneath the colour, wills his surroundings to dissolve and place him in his room at home in another time, or the unbearable fear of sleeping too long – alone – to wake him up. But when nothing changes, and Anthony is still trying to kill him and Ian is still _really_ dying, he realizes this isn’t a nightmare.

And he’s _so_ angry. He’s furious and livid and he doesn’t _want_ to die. He does but not like this. He doesn’t want to die knowing he had spent two years, seven months, fourteen – or _was it fifteen days?_ – searching, crying, tripping, nightmare after nightmare and _fighting_ – trying to save his dumb friend only to be killed by him.

Killed by him, and the creature that floats dangerously behind Anthony’s shoulder. Ian’s so close to blacking out that he only stares, frozen and afraid, at the twin pairs of blue eyes with the running thought that _shit, we’re in trouble now_ (as if the day that dumb shit of a doctor had announced a cure-all remedy for diabetes hadn’t been the moment trouble began). The two monsters start screaming growls and screeches at each other. Anthony’s eyes rip away from his and his grip loosens. Sweet sudden air leaks into Ian’s lungs and it’s enough to give life to his body once again so that he’s thrashing, groping the rocky lake bed for a stone. Then he’s screaming too, raw and painful, as he sees the monster jumping from its hind legs right towards them before using all the weak strength left of him to pound down the smooth stone right into Anthony’s head. There’s a prominent _thud_ as stone meets skull and head meets water again.

There’s another echoing in his mind: the word Anthony had uttered in coherent speak just before he was knocked down, but it’s wasted and flung away as the very real and present moment that the body of the monster lands on him.

It screams too, bulging eyes and mouth open to reveal disastrous rotted teeth. Ian’s heart pounds like thunder through his whole body and he cries out loud and clear, before pushing the light, gross body off of him. The stone in his hand is ready to strike but the monster has a vice grip around his wrist and another tugging at the necklace round its neck. And the necklace catches his eye and his breath. It stops his movements for one second and in that time, it’s enough for the monster to escape Ian’s rock-filled fist before suddenly cutting short its screech, reedy in a wasted throat. Its eyes bear into him, intense, strong, and _pleading_. And she cuts him up like the slick silver sword he’s used to kill so many others.

The word – the _name_ – that Anthony had said floods his mind.

And then he drops the slippery wet rock and the sound as it hits the water breaks the sudden suffocating silence. The quiet is worse than the water and the hands that had almost drowned him. He stares back at it; the hunched figure on all fours, back bent and whole body heaving with wheezing breaths. The murky grey blood seeping from its head and underneath the familiar gold necklace. The chain is clean and unfaded, looking odd and out of place in the backdrop of taunt dying skin. Little broken frays of memories flirt with his mind until he remembers the day he bought it and the afternoon at the airport he had secured it around her neck. She had been smiling.

The memory evaporates and Ian wants to pick up the stone again to kill the painful remembrance. But the eyes – he recognizes them, too. He recognizes them and doesn’t want to. 

Still blue but he _knows_.

He struggles to opens his mouth to speak to it – to _her –_ but his voice is gone. And his mind and body unwilling to cooperate with themselves and each other. He thinks one thing, knows another and wishes to do entirely something else. Nothing comes out but a brittle exhale and it’s like something had crawled into his throat and had killed his voice. He wants to vomit again as the world suddenly goes vertigo and flips him from his back to his feet. But there’s nothing inside and all he can do is choke on the airlessness, clutching onto his throbbing throat and staring wide-eyed at her then to Anthony, whose limp body lies sideways in the still water of the lake.

 _No, no, no, no,_ he thinks. _You’re dead._ He wants to say, _I saw you die. I saw it._

She’s still looking at him, still as he’s ever seen any _thing_ ever be. He can’t do it. He can’t say it. But he wants to as her name runs through his mind like a bullet.

He could be wrong, he thinks. He could be crazy for all he knew. _But what if_ – and the _what if_ is strong and deafening. And he doesn’t get the chance to finish when a piercing shriek sounds from behind him, shaking them both out of their stances.

Ian whips his body around, sucking in a sharp breath as his quick movements tug at his open wounds. And then he _sees:_ between the spaces of trees that suck all light away, little blinking dots of blue paint the black and, as Ian looks on, materializes into thin, crouched bodies. Half a dozen or so cool pale blue eyes reflecting the warmth of the dying sun – staring right back.

And he can’t breathe again. He just can’t – for more than a second he thinks he’s going to die because he _can’t_ breathe. Because there are other _creatures_ just thirty feet from him and it’s more than the one in front of him. More than allowed here, so far removed from the city. And had they been following them all along? How could have Ian missed that? He has to force himself to keep standing, defenceless and hurt, even though his whole body is racked with uncontrollable shaking. The gash on his leg stings and it feels like a wet heavy mace has been dragged through it.

 _They’re here_. And he can smell it in the air. The sweet nectar of clean nature driven away and tainted by the taunt, rotting smell of the _Almost Dead._ The animals are silent and the water beneath him quivers. The trees are frozen.

There’s another shriek from the darkness, to his right now. He flinches, hand darting instinctively behind him for his sword only to find nothing and feels his whole body ache. No gun, no knife, no sword – nothing to protect him. He curses under his breath and looks back. The water around his ankles ripple as she crawls towards the voices until she’s in front of him and crying out, too.

 _They’re talking_ , he thinks. He’s never seen this before. Back in the city, they’re always screaming with no pattern, no literacy detected and nothing like the exchange happening right now. This realization tugs at Ian’s mind and he wonders how many of the screams as he was killing were pleads that had meaning and could be understood.

He shivers, pushing the thought away when she turns around to look at him. Her eyes – blue and soft – dart from his and back behind her where one scream turns to two and then to six, until it’s like Ian’s back in the cement prison outside the forest.

He swallows something thick and hard in his throat as she tugs at her neck, snapping the old gold chain in half and further slicing her skin in the process. She holds out her shaky, weak hand, palm up and necklace hanging from her fingers. An oval locket slides down the chain, swaying back and forth.

He doesn’t want to think what’s inside the locket.

When he doesn’t move – _can’t_ move – and the cries multiple in desperate magnitude, her hand closes and retreats. Her whole face, however marred and mutated, is sad and Ian can’t look at her anymore. He closes his eyes despite knowing that if he brings his attention away he could die amidst being in the centre of a group of _Almost Dead_ just because he can’t look at her.

He corrects himself – He can’t look at _it_.

Finally, Ian hears the splash of water and then the quick pitter-patter of feet retreating in the distance between the world-pounding sounds of his heartbeat.

The screams stop all together. The forest comes back to life. And when he opens his eyes again, his ears ringing and cheeks raw from tears he hadn’t realized were there – she’s gone.

He falls then. Gravity grounding him and putting him where he is now; shaking and trembling and he thought he was dying before when Anthony was killing him – but no – this is _real_ death. Knowing she was still alive, breathing, walking, living and _remembering_ him. Tremors rack his chest as he heaves, spitting out water and saliva and willing air to come back into his lungs. Panic claws viciously at his throat and each trying breath he draws, drags at his lacerated insides.

Melanie is alive.


End file.
